


Medic

by Starofwinter



Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, POV Second Person, Post-Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-07 03:02:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11049945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starofwinter/pseuds/Starofwinter
Summary: "You can hear Kix’s voice in your head, telling you there will never be a way to save them all, but if you just tried harder, you think, you might save enough."





	Medic

You are so  _ tired _ .  Soaked to the bone with rain and mud and the blood of your brothers, two full days into battle.  You are tired, and you are cold, and you are afraid.  Mortar rounds still shake the ground, though their rhythm is slowing, and you know that’s because your brothers have died to stop the oncoming tanks.  Will it be enough, or will the captain call the retreat and force you to leave behind men who could have been saved if you were faster?  

Everything is happening in slow motion, and you know what you need to do, but you’re moving too slowly, like the underwater sims you were forced to run as a cadet.  You keep talking, hoping to reassure the brother beneath your hands, but you know it won’t be enough for him.  You hold his hand for the briefest moment and he says his name.  He doesn’t need to ask you to remember it, it’ll be seared into your memory for the rest of your life.  The light is gone from his eyes as the last syllable leaves his lips, and you press a hand to his chest before rushing to the next body on the ground.  The whole thing couldn’t have taken more than a handful of seconds, but it feels like an hour.  

You don’t know how long the battle lasts.  You don’t even know when it stops.  You don’t realize there’s no one left to help until you’re standing in the middle of the field, looking at the bodies strewn over the ground, black symbols on their armor to mark those past the point of salvation.  Light is breaking through the clouds, reflecting off pools of blood and water alike, off once-white armor, off droids, and it all looks the same to you.  It hardly looks real, and you don’t know if it’s the light or the sleep deprivation or both.  You sway on your feet, and someone catches you.  You don’t know his name, and you start to ask, but the only thing you can manage is the name your brother entrusted to you.  You ask him to remember it, and he promises he will.  He gets you on a Larty too, and knocks your vambraces together before stepping away.  Your eyes catch on the smear of dark red transferred from your own armor.  

Your breaths sound harsh in the confines of your helmet, louder even than the rumble of the engines, but you can’t take it off yet.  It’s temperature-controlled, so why do you still feel so cold?  

You walk off the transport, stiff and shaking, and you head to the medbay.  You can’t stop working yet.  There are still too many men whose lives hang in the balance.  It’s the work of a few minutes to strip off dirty armor and pile it in a corner, waiting to be cleaned.  It feels wrong to put on a clean uniform when you’re still covered in filth, but you do it anyway; there’s no time to clean up past scrubbing all the way to your elbows and pulling on a pair of gloves.  

There are so few injured, and you know why.  You know how many casualties you left behind.  You couldn’t save enough.  You can hear Kix’s voice in your head, telling you there will never be a way to save them all, but if you just tried harder, you think, you might save  _ enough _ .  

When you finally get there, the ‘fresher runs cold.  It doesn’t help the chill in your bones, but it washes away the blood and grime, swirling dark red and black down the drain, and you look cleaner than you feel.  You pull on a set of blacks, and you collapse into your bunk to try to ignore the soft sounds of grief around you.  

_ Ni su’cuyi, gar kyr’adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum. _

You recite every name you’ve ever known, think of every hand you’ve ever held, and you try not to wonder who will recite your name someday.  

When you fall asleep, you wonder how long it will be until you wake up screaming.


End file.
